


Paper in the Wind

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bittersweet, Dorks in Love, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Slice of Life, Social Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: A story of how Shohana Cadash, accountant of a Carta boss who has always dreamed of becoming something more, first met Felix Alexius (who absolutely will survive as a Warden in this continuity, and get a second chance with the odd dwarf girl that touched his heart just as much as he hers).





	Paper in the Wind

With her tall, broad, slightly bumpy brow creased by an expression that is filled with both deep longing and just as deep pain, she looks down at the paper slip that is fluttering like a captured butterfly in her grubby hands, large and square and with short, oft-bitten nails.   
  
It is but a narrow ribbon of white, splashed with black and grey as the ink scribbles scratched into the paper begin to blur in the blotches of her sweat... and that annoying salty, prickly moisture that builds up in her eyes and burns them acidly until she has to blink, setting off large murky drops to roll down her round cheeks.  
  
But a narrow ribbon of white - but a simple memento left from her third meeting with that oddly kind Tevinter. One that had not happened by accident for a change.  
  
***  
  
Their first encounter was at his professor's study at the University of Orlais, which she had been sent to rob by the Carta but got too distracted by browsing through all those wonderful math books on the shelves to make a quick getaway. Ah, rotten nug haunches, she must have looked so ridiculous, sitting on the floor at the foot of an enormous bookcase, all glass and gilt and that fancy dark wood that was hard and polished like finest rock, with black swirls looping into endless mesmerizing patterns along its surface under the layer of pristine lacquer.  
  
She had pulled that fantastical bookcase open, touching the glass door with the reverence of a Shaper studying the Memories (not that she would actually know how a Shaper would go about their daily life; she would never have been allowed to as much as cast a shadow across a street where the Shapers walk). And as soon as the resulting gap was broad enough for her to slip her hand in, she had stood on tiptoe to be able to reach at least the lowest shelf, and, grabbing hold of the tome with the least adorned spine (because she would not have dared to get her mitts on it otherwise), yanked it loose, the impact making her plop down on the poor hapless freshly scrubbed floorboards, her legs spread wide and the soles of her crinkled, worn-down boots pointing up at the vaulted ceiling (this was her first, and last, solo heist, and she had fretted a great deal over following the instructions of more experienced Carta thieves to the letter; this included putting on old and comfortable footwear that would not creak like the joints of an old lyrium miner).  
  
Once she made her silly landing, she remained sitting like that, gradually fidgeting into a more cozy pose, and forgetting all about the instructions for once. The tome turned out too engrossing to keep the gruff, dusty voices of the proper Carta thugs - the ones that had dared her to go on a heist like the rest of them -  ringing through her head.  
  
'Some in the family says you ain't been pulling your weight enough, Shohana. Some in the family says you's no good just as a book keeper. Some in the family says you been getting too cozy in that dingy lil office of yours while we be out there risking our hides. You gotta prove you can do more than just push numbers for the boss. If you are in the Carta, you are full-in. So how 'bout a lil game, eh? You go climb into the room of one of those fancy professors that strut about this here building, and clear it of all the gimmicks you can carry, all by yourself... If you pull it off, we'll be treatin' you with the respect a full-on family member deserves; if you don't, it's gonna be nug shit in your breakfast for the rest of your days. What says you, number-pusher?'  
  
She said yes back then, her big round ears burning a deep crimson with their insults. Now she suspects that they had been setting her up, expecting her to fail and looking forward to having a lot of fun over her sitting around with rattling knees and a runny nose in a dismal dank Orlesian jail until someone deigned to break her out. Either out of boredom or because they detested that she had been taken off the streets of Dust Town - something that she must always remember to be grateful for! - not for having nimble fingers and quick, quiet feet or massive fists and bulging venous muscles, but for her huge funny egghead that is good with numbers.  
  
And sod it, she was berating herself for falling for it, for not ratting them out to the higher-ups (who would probably have been bronto-angry at that bunch of big-jawed bruisers for putting the family at risk of exposure for a lark). She was screaming on the inside about how stupid she was all the while: as she climbed into that stupid window, and tiptoed around the study to case it for valuables, and give in to the lure of the bookcase... But that tome, that wonderful tome, comfortingly heavy and smelling of leather and old paper and typer's ink, made it all go away. For a while, she could imagine that there was no Carta, no heist, no stifling air of Dust Town at the bottom of her lungs. No impending threat of the professor walking in on her, sprawled on his impeccably clean floor and gawking at his books, and calling the guards.  
  
For a while, all that mattered was that tome in her hands. It had puzzles in it! Puzzles! Or, well, they were called 'mathematical problems and solutions' - but whatever the label on them, she devoured them like a starving beggar devours a slice of mushroom pie. This was so, so much better than forging ledgers and making it look like the Carta's shop fronts were honest-to-goodness businesses when the tax collectors came knocking. Finally, her mind - which had been getting none of the 'coziness' and all of the stagnation in her 'dingy little office' - had a chance to stretch, to exercise, to break away from the routine of pushing numbers.  
  
Before she knew it, she had pulled out a graphite rod that she always sticks into her hair in lieu of a pin, rolled up her sleeve, and began scratching calculations across her own forearm (because it would not do to mar someone else's book, now would it?). As soon as she figured out a few of the solutions given as an example, the puzzles - problems - all started falling together; and with each one cracked, a gleeful smile spread broader and broader across her face.  
  
That smile folded up for a moment, her eyes bulging and her heart ricocheting off her ribcage and up into her throat, when she heard the study's door screech open, and a male voice call out tentatively,  
  
'Um, excuse me? I am sorry for coming in so late in the evening, but I just wanted to make sure... Hello? Monsieur..? Hello?'  
  
Yes, the smile folded (how could it not, when her limbs went cold and she could swear she was going to die) - but then, inexplicably, it returned again. The moment her eyes met those of the person that had peeked through the door - really pretty brown eyes, gazing, large and rounded, through the slits of a dainty Orlesian mask that did not quite conceal a pretty human face, with closely cropped black hair and a wisp of a moustache. A face that flushed when the two of them spotted one another; and, almost choking on the sudden heat wave, she felt that she was getting flushed right back.  
  
'Oh,' the human breathed out sheepishly, with his lips curling up a little bit under the mask's rim. He spoke softly, with a peculiar accent that she would later place as Tevinter.  
  
'I, uh, didn't mean to disturb you. Is the professor in?'  
  
She should have played along, pretended to be a student, acted like there was nothing  amiss: just your average scholar gal doing her scholar thing... But the darned Tevinter duster was so pretty that the jerking thrum in her own chest and temples completely smothered any words of reason, driving her to blurt out, while scrambling in sheer panic to her feet,  
  
'I am so sorry! I haven't taken anything yet! I will leave now! P-Please don't call the guards!'  
  
The human blinked and asked in disbelief (sounding rather hurt),  
  
'You... You are a thief? But you are so cu... I mean...'  
  
'I will leave now,' she repeated, with a feverish breathlessness. 'I can... I can handle some nug shit in my drink, I am sure'.  
  
'Wait, wait!'   
  
Even as she shuffled in dejection back towards the window, the human lunged forward, his hand making a desperate grabbing motion through the air.  
  
'Are you being bullied into this? I knew you didn't strike me as a thief! Can I... Can I help? Confront your bullies maybe? I am not... the powerful scary magister they make my people out to be, but I can play the part... I think'.  
  
Quite despite herself, she snorted with laughter.  
  
'The people who... um... bully me are far too... hardened, I am afraid. I don't think pretending to be a magister will scare the Carta'.  
  
'All right...'  
  
He readjusted the fit of his mask, frowning thoughtfully.  
  
'How about... You take that gilded inkwell on the desk over there?'  
  
He pointed at a clunky, rather garish... thingummy, plastered all over with blaring golden figures of naked elves that had disproportionate long legs and half-lidded, open-mouthed expressions like they were making a lot of effort on the privy.  
  
'And when the professor comes back, I will tell him I broke a piece off it, and offer some compensation! It will probably eat away all my allowance, but this way, your people won't punish you for coming back empty-handed, and the professor will be rid of a gaudy thing that he received from some Comtesse or other as a gift but actually hates, and...'  
  
He cut himself short, pulling at the frilly collar of his shirt, which was laid out on top of his puff-sleeved vest.  
  
'But don't let me keep you will my babble! What do you think?'   
  
She needed a moment to process his offer: while their previous exchange had been in jest, he now looked like he was serious. Like he was more than ready to cover for a complete stranger that he had surprised in the midst of robbing his own teacher.  
  
'Won't you... Get in trouble?' she asked cautiously. 'With whomever is sending you this allowance, for example?'  
  
But he was already thrusting the dubious inkwell into her hands, smiling again.  
  
'I like trouble,' he said simply.  
  
***  
  
The second time they met was some days later, in the middle of a bustling marketplace where he had somehow managed to pick her out from a rushing crowd in bright billowing dresses and bell-shaped striped pantaloons and hats that had glittering many-coloured sequins and bobbing fuzzy feathers on them - with a radiant grin of recognition spreading over his half-masked face and his gloved hand shooting up in a vigorous wave of greeting.  
  
The contorted-elf inkwell had been very well-received. She had not had it in her to put on a look of triumph as the garish article passed hands between the speechless, humbled bruisers - she had not really pulled off that heist, after all. But since that day their taunts had grown far less aggressive, and once the inkwell had been melted down and sold, they had even slipped her a tiny cut of the profits - which provided her with a chance to venture out amd buy groceries, a shawl wrapped tightly over her head and shoulders to conceal the brand on her face (all but meaningless topside, but still a source of innate shame, which still lingers on, clinging on to her heart like sticky, oozing black tar, even though it has been quite a while since she was moved from Orzammar to a family branch operating under the sky).   
  
But, apparently, the shawl had not been quite enough to fully hide her face from view - because at one point, when she looked up from beneath it, she found herself quite inexplicably stunned by that radiant grin.  
  
'How did it go?' he asked her excitedly, as soon as he had maneuvered towards her, slipping past a ruffled arm or two with a quick murmur of 'Pardon, pardon'.  
  
'Did they accept the inkwell? Are you safe now?'  
  
He cleared his throat and added, in a quieter, more measured tone,  
  
'I apologize if it is forbidden for you to talk to me... or anyone... Not of the Carta. Trust me, I am not usually this... annoyingly gregarious'.  
  
'You are not annoying at all!' she hastened to encourage him, blushing densely again when she heard him breathe a sigh of relief. 'And I am allowed to contact humans... So long as I report back. And I will just say that I was making small talk as I went out for food'.  
  
She cast a glance across the row of colourful stalls, and added loudly, trying to outshout  the embarrassing rumble of her stomach,  
  
'The one good thing about living on the surface is all the amazing food you can try. Back... where I grew up, it was all diced mushroom stalks and moss ale and nug jerky... On good days'.  
  
Just above the mask, the human's eyebrows arched in sympathy; but he did not allow the sad mood to linger, and announced brightly,  
  
'Well then,allow me to take you to a lovely little place I discovered thanks to my coursemates!'  
  
With another wave-like gesture, he led her off to a long gallery, supported by whimsically carved columns, which sheltered an outdoor café: about half a dozen round tables with rectangular napkins neatly spread out across them, tasseled corners hanging over the edge in bright-yellow triangles; elven servers flitting about noiselessly with one arm behind a rigidly straight back; and a bard playing a long-necked lute in the corner.  
  
After a quick, practiced scan of the place, which revealed that he had been there many times before, the human quickly found an unoccupied table, and pulled a chair out for his companion with a small bow that kind of made her giggly (bizarre as it was to play along with his politeness and pretend that she was some sort of lady, it was also rather fun).  
  
Following his example, she ordered a bowl of rich cheese-based soup, a cup of Rivaini coffee with a wisp of foamy white cream on top, and a large round pastry with what she assumed was the royal profile drawn on top of it in streaky glazing.  
  
As they slurped their soup, they mostly talked about her impressions of the surface: how dazed she had been when she saw the sky for the first time, how addicted you could get to fresh air,  what an incredible thing daylight was (apparently, some Orlesian scientist recently discovered that a single light beam breaks down into a rainbow of colours; and he was a dwarf, too - nobody else would have come up with the idea to take a closer look at sunlight, something that so many surface-born folk take for granted). But as she was biting down into desert, brandishing the diminishing pastry in the air after each gulp to make it clear just how much she was enjoying it, she let slip something that appeared to upset the friendly Tevinter.  
  
'This food is delicious! Tell your friends thanks for me!'  
  
The gaze in the mask holes grew clouded and a little distant.  
  
'I... I wouldn't say they are my friends...' he confessed, drumming at the table.  
  
'I mean... We are on good terms now but back then... I was simply following them around... Laughing when they laughed... Daring to speak sometimes but mostly getting talked over... When...' his lips twitched wryly, 'When your father is a Tevinter magister... The people down south do not exactly welcome you with open arms... Not that - not that I am ashamed of my family! My father is a good man, and cares for me deeply... I think the world will end before he starts enthralling people with blood magic... He did all he could to make sure I found the best place to study... And I... I have managed to fit in here, in the end... It was still hard work, though...'  
  
Fitting in is always hard work - that much she could agree on. But much as her heart swelled with sympathy for the human - so sweet, and yet apparently so lonely - she was not certain which wotheywould suit best for expressing what she felt. So instead, she dared to reach out and place her hand - so glaringly unladylike, despite all of their playing pretend - on top of his.   
  
That Rivaini coffee must have had rum in it, or something of the sort. Because what else, if not alcohol, could explain this boldness of hers? The touch of a casteless is poison; it is a dire crime to inflict it on people above your station. This knowledge has been beaten into her almost since birth, and even though she is not in Orzammar any longer, this has not miraculously turned her into a mushy hugger and a frivolous hand-taker.  
  
When her brain registered where her hand was, she froze up even worse than when caught red-handed in the professor's study. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end, and something mindlessly superstitious took over her pounding head - some gripping fear of the ground bursting open and swallowing her whole, or of the sky turning into a bottomless blue funnel and sucking her in, just as the drunken Dust Town elders would say, showering the petrified youngsters with rancid spittle.  
  
But no such primordial disaster came; all that she got for her transgression was a tender, grateful look from the Tevinter, who smiled at her with that disarming sincerity, and then changed the subject.  
  
'You will still need to carry some food home, won't you? This looks fun!'  
  
With his free hand, he pointed at a woman in a full-face mask, who was dancing on tiptoe at the mouth of an alleyway, with a red-draped table by her side. On that table, stood a see-through flask, filled to the brim with elongated yellowish seeds, and a wicker basket with a stack of round orange fruit (approximately called 'oranges', as far as she knows; she had never tried one before). The basket's handle had an enormous red bow tied to it, holding in place a sign that read,  
  
'Whosoever guesses the number of oranges in this flask, shall get the basket as a gift!'  
  
'I maaay have a bit of a plan how to get you this basket,' the human said, smirking. 'What about you?'  
  
'Well, stealing it aside...'   
  
Here, she had to pause for an awkward cough.  
  
'If you've tried these fruit before, you'd know how many seeds there usually are in a single one, right? So... With that in mind... We could... Sneak into that alley behind her... I think there are some crates lying about out there... Those crates could have the emblem of the grocer who supplied them... By that emblem, we find the grocer... Ask them how many fruit... Oranges, right? They put in a single crate... Multiply the number of oranges in one crate by the number of crates in the alley... Detract the number of oranges that went into the basket... And multiply what remains...'  
  
'By the number of seeds in a single orange!' the human finished up joyously. 'What makes it even better is that Orlesian horticulturists have been having a fad lately - growing fruits with this specific number of seeds; to reflect some meaningful date in the court's life I think. They have even tried bringing in university scholars to do it... "Finalleee yoo science pea-puhl can bee uze-fool"!'  
  
He drawled the last phrase in a mock Orlesian accent (keeping his voice lowered so as not to draw stares) - and she could not help but laugh, swept off by a kind of gloating mirth. A mathematician being forced to count fruit seeds was probably not too far off from her poring over fake ledgers.  
  
Still breaking into a snorting fit whenever their eyes met, they paid the tab and slipped off towards the alley, where their scavenger hunt began. And in the end, it actually worked! Rummaging in the trash (a job for a casteless duster for sure - but the Tevinter insisted on doing it, and even spread our his arms dramatically, encouraging her to laugh at him, when he emerged with a soggy banana peel stuck to his vest); counting the crates; puzzling out the wobbly lines stamped onto them; doing a silly little dance on the spot once they deduced that the stamp meant 'The Diamond Carrot' (and chortling much more than the pun deserved); racing off along the waterfront to find that store and question the owner (who thankfully turned out to be a very meticulous sort of fellow, always stocking his crates with the same nice and round number of oranges); and arriving back at the woman's table, screaming out breathless calculations like they were a hilarious anecdote.   
  
It all worked - and the orange basket found itself a new goofy, grinning, snickering owner, who had not even noticed how her shawl had managed to slide off.  
  
As they parted ways, the Tevinter kissed her hand (kissed! her! hand! without as much as a flinch!), saying that 'This has been one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever had' - and although these orange things have turned out quite useful for quenching thirst, she seems to grow parched all over again when she remembers the way he looked at her when he let her go.  
  
  
***  
  
Unlike the first two meetings, for the third time - this time; last time - they actually sought each other on purpose.  
  
After she had recovered a little from the hand kiss, he offered to meet the same time next week. And meet they did, in a discreet little nook of the same café where they had had the maybe-rum-spiked coffee.   
  
The weather has turned colder this weekend, and he came to the - how do Orlesians call it? - reindeer-woo in a long fur-adorned cloak, which flapped around him like bird wings when he leaned down and took her hand for another kiss.  
  
'You... You have extraordinary eyes,' he announced without warning, the skin under his mask positively crimson.   
  
All that she could manage in return was a squeak of wonderment: she is well aware that compliments are meant to hide an ulterior motive, but the delight of seeing him, and the awe of how handsome that cloak made him, prevented her from looking for one. Nor could she figure out what bargain he was making when he reached under his furs and presented her with 'a little something for Satinalia'.  
  
It was a large-format, paperback volume of introductory mathematical theory, complete with a fresh set of bookmarks, one of which she is now clasping in her burning, frostbitten fingers (while the book itself is safely tucked away at the bottom of her bag).  
  
She does not really observe human holidays (not that anyone would invite her to), but the Carta does keep track of the calendar, in order to always have a notion of when certain homes will be standing empty.  
  
So she knows that present has come a bit early; and the Tevinter did comment on it himself, too.  
  
'I... I am not certain if it is polite to share Satinalia greetings with who is not human... And it is a little premature... But I... I just wanted to brighten your day a little... Before I go away... You know... To spend the holidays with my family'.  
  
Family. Of course. Not one in the Carta sense; one in the... regular sense, she supposes. One that someone like her is not allowed to have.  
  
These thoughts must have cast a really gloomy cloud on her downturned face - for the next thing the Tevinter did was wrap his cloak protectively around her shoulders and gaze intently into her face.  
  
'You can come with me,' he offered impulsively.  
  
'I will introduce you to some people with connections at the Ambassadorium; maybe they will help you buy your freedom from the Carta and start a new life. And I can tutor you for the entrance exam so you can begin studying at my faculty next term! I...'  
  
He chuckled shyly.  
  
'I don't know if I am worth anything as a teacher, but I will take pointers from my father. He is good at this - and the one thing I have learned from him is that gifted people come from all walks of life, and those of us... who are more fortunate must help them grow. You are such a wonderful, brilliant person; it is wrong to waste your potential in service to some... shady crime lord. You will do so, so wonderfully at the University'.  
  
She shook her head in silence in response to that, drawing away from him while her fingertips travelled instinctively to trace the square pattern on her cheek. He acknowledged that with a resigned sigh, and did not push the matter further, other than taking out one of the bookmarks and jotting three words across it.  
  
'Asarie. Felix Alexius'.  
  
'Asarie is a place in Tevinter,' he explained. 'Where my family's estate is. So that you know where to write - or travel - if you ever change your mind'.  
  
And her mind has almost been changed. By the warmth in his eyes, evident even through the mask, and his contagious smile, and the way he would light up when they kept finding out how much they have in common. By the promise of a new life, in a place where she would be allowed to study mathematics, like she has always dreamed.  
  
Almost changed - but not quite. The brand is still etched into her skin, reminding her more starkly than ever that, similar as they are, she and... and Felix are also so very different. He was born into the lap of luxury, into the home of a wealthy, influential father who cares about him to boot; with his future wide open and full of boundless possibilities. And she had only two possibilities ahead of her. Join the Carta - which would use her skill with numbers to forge ledgers and dupe contractors - or wilt away into nothing in Dust Town. The Carta was there for her first, when the happy, blessed princelings like Felix were not even aware of her existence. And she owes the Carta a lifetime debt for that; tempting as it is, she would not dare doublecross them by eloping into Tevinter.   
  
Felix would probably have grown tired of her in a week or so, the way she heard his kind grows tired of their playthings; and then, how would she have crawled back to the Carta? How would she have asked forgiveness?  
  
The very thought of their wrath terrifies her; sod it, she is too scared even to come up with a proper excuse for sneaking off to meet some human! This time, she does not have the pretext of visiting the market; with Satinalia approaching - and thus the turning of the taxation period - she should have been tending to the books!  
  
What will she say if her absence is noticed? How will she eel out of this new tight spot? What nonsense will come out of her mouth, which never seeim to function properly where Fel... this Tevinter is concerned?   
  
'I was only here to... establish an alibi... for... something?'  
  
This is stupid. She is stupid. She should never have agreed to this... whatever it was. She should never have forgotten her place.  
  
Gritting her teeth, shutting her eyes so tightly her head begins to hurt a little, Shohana Cadash - a brainless, brainless nug of a girl who should really do better than fall for pretty humans - stretches out her arm, as far away from herself as she can, and opens her palm, letting the paper slip be snatched away by the wind.


End file.
